(Re) Birth Day

Lockie’s eyes crinkle with his laugh; it is one of his most lovable features. His ginger beard muffles a wide smile but it’s his brown almond shaped eyes that hold my full attention. My 23 year old son and I are travelling to Sydney to see the Archibald’s; (we are an art-loving family) and to spend time together in re-discovering each other, after 5 years apart as mother and son.

Well, that’s probably not quite true, but it does seem like I haven’t seen my son for the past five years. His fulltime work, uni studies, and his currant gal-pal Val, demand his time and mind. I have to stop myself from hugging him too much. Restraint is not my second name. Passion is.
On the plane we discuss the concept of a god, aliens, and conspiracies. He discusses Socrates. The dead philosopher is Lockie’s latest passion, (he’s reading the book of Apologies) and later that night – at the musical show Wicked - Socrates is mentioned in passing. I nudge and wink. “See, he’s still relevant” says Lockie. We grin.

I am in my parent’s town. I am walking the streets my father walked, before the war. I am looking at cathedrals and dead Kings that my mother saw. Her town. Her Sydney. My mother’s culture. I walk the streets with my eldest son, my bearded, chatty, laughing son who’s eyes wrinkle and crinkle with humour.

Over lunch and Rock oysters, he speaks. His hands keep time to his voice; knitting the air. Entranced by his perfect nose, I marvel at my own handiwork. As a natural birth consumer, his celebrated arrival was long and joyous; my birth cry of “I have a son, I have a son” echoing the corridor.
Sometimes, we are so busy bringing each other up as a parent and a child, we forget to simply revel in the uniqueness and beauty of each other. I stare away his conversation, nodding when I remember. His straight, no-nonsense nose. His generous, talking mouth. I mentally trim a stray hair of his moustache as he eats his Kilpatrick oysters. An unknown tourist takes our photo.

We are in the foreground, and the Bridge yawns behind us as a dozen climbers tickle it’s back. Later, our photograph will be placed carefully in a blue covered album entitled “My Trip To Australia Down Under” and placed on the middle shelf of the American snapper’s bookcase.
Circular Quay is a whorehouse for tourists. Have camera, will click. It doesn’t matter to us though; we too are tourists, to each other’s lives, and this sparkling city. I bite into my oyster and its creaminess. An angel’s full-mouth kiss.

Within the hour we will be seated 3 rows from the top of the Opera House, to see the ballet. For now though, it’s a talk-fest of information, swapping lives and experiences, embellishing stories of family, honed and polished, to be retold to unborn children.

We dream of unplanned joy, and share the rebirth of our lives, together, as adults.

Ask me

Hugging my pillow, eyes closed, feeling the white linen against my skin.
Ask me.
Ask me!
I will him in my mind to Ask me.
Am I happy?
I want him to roll over and look at me and ask me if I am happy, because the answer would be yes! Yes! Yes!
Today I am happy with my life, my family, my bloke.

Hamitlon Island - thoughts

People have to swim quietly here, this is not a place for kidding around or chiacking, indeed, the inner child is so suppressed we swim like ballerinas en point, delicately, with precision, and as little rippling as possible.
~~
It’s a wonderful thing to be worn out from usefulness.
~~
The thing about Rockhampton is, that it taught me resilience and initiative.
~~
I am sharing the pool with men. Men who's thighs have grown soft and flabby like a woman. From too much work. Desk work, mind work. Not physical work. A man who works hard physically, say as a road repairer or gardener, has thighs like tree trunks, strong, thick and made of iron, if that were possible of human flesh.
~~
My thoughts barely have time to form before they disappear like fog, leaving only the memory of confusion.